Page 14 of A Secret and a Lie
A throbbing starts at my temple, spreading behind my eye socket. Thankfully, Nathaniel speaks up then, saving my brain from exploding. “I’ll take him if you take Elliott Leplee. He’s bisexual, so he might be okay with the swap. I’ll talk to him about it.”
I nod absently. Elliott is the director of Homeland Security. Oh, I can certainly make that work.
Once that’s settled, I dismiss everyone but ask Corinne and the security team to stick around for a moment.
“How can we tighten things down? I know that not everything is preventable, but what happened last night never should’ve happened in the first place. I shouldn’t be having to enforce the rules.”
Marcus nods. I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t already know, especially considering he’s been with me since the very beginning.
The rules are good, solid. We haven’t had an incident in three years, and even then, it wasn’tthisbad.
“We’ll expand the team and increase the number of security personnel per floor from two to four.”
I nod, thinking. “Let’s add some additional panic buttons to the rooms on the fourth floor and increase the security guards there to five. I’d like all sessions involving impact play to take place there. There simply isn’t enough room on the second floor to accommodate the riskier sessions.”
Everyone agrees and moves to leave, but I capture Marcus before he can make an exit. “See if you can track down Bree. I’d like to have a conversation with her.”
The look he gives me has me affirming, “A conversation, Marcus, just a conversation.”
“For now,” he mutters, and there’s no need to correct him.
“It’s late. You should go home, Gen,” Corinne says, and I glance at the clock to find it nearing eight in the evening. I’ve been busy trying to organize my calendar and squeezing in a session with one of my clients. I’m tired, and I haven’t been home in more than twenty-four hours.
“Don’t make me drag you out of here by your hair,” Corinne warns, and I chuckle.
Taking her advice, I nod, gathering my belongings before following her to the elevator. When the lift doors close, she states quietly, “There isn’t a person here who doesn’t trust you. You keep us safe, and weallappreciate that. I hope you know that.”
A soft smile touches my lips as I look at my best friend. “I don’t deserve you.”
In the lobby, Corinne slips out of the back entrance while I use the front doors. When I emerge from the building, it’s raining—misting, to be exact—but I don’t bother with the small umbrella I keep in my purse. Instead, I let the rain cleanse me of my sins, erasing my transgressions.
Striding confidently down the vacant, rain-slicked streets, I allow the moisture to soak my clothes and slide down my skin. If my designer pumps get ruined, so be it. I’ll buy new ones.
As I walk the several blocks to my home, the sky’s holy water douses me. I strip out of my wet clothes the moment I step inside, leaving them in a pile in the laundry room. Turning the shower lever as hot as it’ll go, I stare into the mirror while I wait for the bathroom to steam up.
The woman staring back at me is stony and formidable. All traces of softness from my past are gone, hardened by years of adversity. Ibecame acquainted with sex work at a time when I needed to find myself most. The rush it gave me was heady.
Until I lost it all.
The queen whose pawn was toppled over.
I blame tenacity for what happened next: I clawed, scraped, killed, and threatened my way back up from the dark until I saw sunlight again. Then, I climbed further, into the clouds. That’s where I sit now, aware of the danger that lurks below me, but I’m too damn powerful to take down.
My demise taught me one thing, though: the only person on this planet worthy of my trust is myself.
Stepping beneath the scalding spray, I sigh, attempting to relax. I want to let go, but I’ve entirely forgotten what that’s like. I’ve been wearing this mask for so long, it’s cemented to my face.
Once I’m out of the shower and have slathered moisturizer from my neck to my toes, I dig through my extensive pajama collection, which might be the only things I value, and slip into one of my favorites: a green satin set with lace trim.
Striding through my modern home that’s as cold and aloof as I feel on the inside, I make for the kitchen. Busying myself, I pour myself a gin martini—extra, extra dirty with four olives and a splash of lemon juice—while the news anchor’s deep timbre provides soothing background noise as he informs the public of the growing tensions in Kazakhstan. As I wait for the dinner my chef prepared for me to heat up, I reach for the huge slice of frosted strawberry cake in the refrigerator. The best part of being an adult is choosing what order to have dessert in, and for me, it’s always first. Life is short.
I’ve just grabbed a fork when my phone vibrates on the counter. I sigh when the cadence tells me it’s not a text, and I groan even before I look to see who might be calling me. When I see the name flashing across the screen, I close my eyes for a moment. I should’ve known I’d be hearing from him after last night’s gala.
“Hey, sugar,” Henry drawls the moment I accept his call. His voice is low, even as noisy background sounds filter through.He must be in public, which is odd, considering howprivatehe likes to keep our relationship. Probably for his wife’s sake, or maybe his kids? Though, I know for a fact that his wife is fucking their French housekeeper, and his daughter is a client of Nathaniel’s. Perhaps it’s more about keeping his career as a lifelong politician safe.
Fortifying myself, I take a sip of my martini, praying the gin kicks infast. “What can I do for you?”
“A friend of mine wants to meet you.”
